


The Revolver

by amekokain



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Panic! at the Disco, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Infinity Stones, Multi, Please Don't Hate Me, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-17 02:07:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15451026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amekokain/pseuds/amekokain
Summary: Alexander Costello is Tony Stark’s childhood friend. When he starts killing people, the Avengers want to know why, and who his new, mysterious girlfriend and accomplice is. And where the hell has Eden been for all this time?Based off a dream I had where Brendon Urie was a Marvel Supervillain and I liked it so much I decided to write it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very long story with many chapters, and as I go through and edit the chapters they will change, maybe in key ways. Also please don’t hate me for using OCs, I know some people who get very annoyed with people using OCs.   
> Alexander is based off of Brendon Urie, I had a dream where he was a Marvel villain and basically destroyed the Avengers. It’s my favourite dream to date!

Saturday. Not the worst day in the world. In fact, it was one of his favourites. Saturday night was even better; plenty of partiers and club-goers, and plenty people causing a scene for him to sort out. At first, he considered a spandex suit. Every superhero ever had one, but it didn’t really fit his persona. Instead he went for a gold, paisley print suit jacket, a white shirt and a bow tie, which never stayed done up. The distinct lack of spandex meant everyone saw his face, but he liked it. People knew who he was, and basking in the glory like Tony Stark made him infinitely happy. Although, he was never as well received as Tony Stark, and he could never work out why. He always thought that people would recognise what he was doing, it was the same as all the other heroes. Saving people from evil. That’s what they did, and people loved them. So why did they not do the same for him? And did they really know who he was?

Tonight, he was sat on the roof of his favourite club in Las Vegas, watching the street below intently. His feet swayed to the music in his head, watching the perfect scene unfold below him. A girl, maybe about eighteen years old, blonde and clad in a green sequined cocktail dress. Two men, both massive in size, flanked her on either side. They were closing in on her, cornering her and arms flying to hold her down. But she was stronger than she looked; her hands stayed firmly clasped around her waist no matter how hard they tugged at them. Her heels were gathered in her fist and her body trembled ever so slightly. He could almost smell her fear from his rooftop position. The men had a firm grasp on her now as they slowly lifted her small frame off the ground. Her legs flew out in front of her, kicking at the air in hopes that she’d strike one of them. He was on the ground now, facing her. He motioned for her to stay silent, and her bright green eyes stared back at him in fear. Her legs stopped thrashing around, and her attackers smirked, believing she’d submitted. He wasn’t nearly as imposing as these two men; he barely reached five-foot-ten, and they had to be at least six-foot-five, and he certainly wasn’t the most muscular man in the world. But still, not long after they had set her back down, one was flung into a wall. There was a loud crack, letting him know that the man’s skull had shattered on impact with the casino brickwork. The other, not as dead one span round, preparing to throw a punch. He swung his fist, but it connected with nothing. Instead, he was thrown to the ground as his abdomen received a swift punch from the vigilante. He stepped over his form, extending a hand out to the girl. She took it gratefully and he pulled her up to stand. He slightly overestimated the strength needed to pull her up, and she came crashing into his chest. He wrapped his arms around her to steady her, and her skin erupted in goose bumps, only just realising how cold it was.

Behind them, the man began to stir. He laboriously pulled himself up, ready to attack again. But the girl pushed past the man who still had his arms wrapped around her, suddenly full of confidence, and sent the heel of her shoe crashing into his neck. She pierced his jugular perfectly, and when she yanked her shoe out, he tumbled back to the floor, holding the hole in his neck in attempt to cover it. She wiped the blood off on his tee shirt as her saviour stared in wonder.

“What?” she asked, twirling her shoes around, “they’re Louboutins. Do you expect me to leave them bloody?” He didn’t respond, slightly in awe of this woman who had so easily floored a man. She began to walk away, now viewed in a completely different light.

He scaled the building, returning to his previous position and watching the streets like a hawk.


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s been another one,” Steve said, staring blankly at the data pad in his hand.

“Throw it on the screen,” sighed Tony, who was balancing precariously on the back of a chair and gazing at the screen filled with reports of men being murdered. They’d been cropping up all over the States, but with a large concentration in Las Vegas. Every death was the same; people had had their necks snapped or skulls cracked, and every body was found with a solid gold bullet. Every crime had been committed in the cover of darkness, hidden in a secluded corner with no cameras in sight. It made their job very taxing.

“Maybe he thinks he’s a vigilante,” mused Natasha, reaching over Steve to flick through a file.

“Wait,” Tony was only half-ignoring her, “one of them was stabbed. Through the neck. Nasty.”

“He’s changing his M.O. But why?” Nat mumbled, surprised that they were being so logical about it.

“There is someone new,” offered Wanda as she walked into the room, startling everyone else. “He only killed one.”

“It does make sense, I mean, would he even have something that long and thin on him?” Sam was sat like the rest of them, arms folded and eyes glazing over a file. “What even was it?”

“A stiletto heel,” smiled Nat knowingly; shed done her fair share of using a shoe as a weapon. She had to admit, she liked this person’s style, it wasn’t exactly easy to thrust a heel right through to the jugular.

“Punching our way out of this one will not be easy,” said Wanda, who was now sat next to Vision.

“I fear not,” he replied, reaching for her hand. She took it and squeezed lightly. Whoever he was, he had successfully managed to unsettle every Avenger, even Clint. And he didn’t get uneasy.

“He calls himself Revolver. What kind of ego-fuelled name is that?”

“Says the Iron Man?!” Laughed Clint. He refused to look at the files, for a reason known only to him, but still insisted on being a part of the discussions. Tony huffed, annoyed that he was right. He always had to be right.

“My point is,” he said, salvaging his faux pas at the last minute, “he’s trying to be like us. Can’t he see that he’s not a hero?”

“You gotta start somewhere, Tony,” said Steve, not quite realising what he’d said. He glared back at him before returning his attention to the board. He’d been operating for months without leaving a single clue as to who he was. The only indication was the gold bullets. One for every victim. Somehow this person had enough money to be able to do that, which narrowed down the suspect pool significantly. But there was always the possibility that they were stolen, and had somehow had gone unreported. He had to be strong, and visibly so, or how else could people end up lodged into buildings halfway up? And the force at which some of them where killed…  
His new partner appeared to also be causing a problem. Fortunately, there were no other cases of being stabbed with heels, which meant she was new to this. Or at least she appeared to be. Either way, they were a problem. And the rate at which these people were being killed was only growing.

“Boss, there’s reports of another death. A gold bullet, plenty of blood, but no body.” F.R.I.D.A.Y. piped up. Images of the crime scene flashed up on the hologram; a river of blood ran down the street, and a singular gold bullet was stood up on the pavement next to it. The local law enforcement in Vegas couldn’t pull any prints off the bullet, the report said. Tony told F.R.I.D.A.Y. to send a note to them to give him the bullets for analysis. Everyone was racking their brains, trying to figure out what was happening. It was in vain – they couldn’t think. Another addition to the case flashed up on the screen. The owner of the blood had been identified; he was a well-known thug, and more recently, rapist. A news article came with it, and now the press was calling him a vigilante, full-blown. The headline read:  
‘City praises vigilante for his work’. The one thing they didn’t want to happen had happened.


	3. Chapter 3

The dead of night, again. The darkness drew him out like it always did, snaking through the sky-rise blocks of apartments and immodest streets. This was the more fancy, more sleazy part of Las Vegas, known for its expensive casinos and somehow classy strip clubs. His destination was the Wynn casino, the best of the best. As he stepped out of his car, a black 1966 Ford Mustang GT polished to perfection, the bouncer pulled aside the red velvet rope for him to enter. A crowd of people waiting to get in surged forward, only to be held back by the bouncer.

“Mr Costello,” a superbly suited man greeted him, “he’s waiting for you at the roulette table.” He nodded in response and headed inside. The interior of the Wynn casino was decked out in Chinese symbols of luck and intricately carved mahogany. The air was humid due to the numerous fountains dotted around, and the occasional croak of a frog was heard. A tall brunette woman wearing just about as much as one of the frogs handed him a stack of poker chips, each with a Chinese dragon carved into the small gold setting. The metal clanged against the gold of his signet ring as he rolled the chips through his fingers. He sat at the roulette table, next to an aging man with white hair. To his left was a woman not too dissimilar to the woman who handed him the chips; tall, brunette and skimpily dressed. In short, not his type at all. The man slid him a wooden box about the size of a brick with an intricate tree carved in the top. He flipped open the latch and opened the lid, finding a set of fifty gold bullets that fit perfectly into the box.

“They’re onto you,” the man warned.

“I can keep ‘em off my trail,” he smirked back, sliding over his stack of chips. The woman immediately left his side and went to stand by the older man, stroking his shoulders lightly. He rolled his eyes, sick of people interested in people for their money.

“Careful, Costello, that Utah voice will get you killed round here.”

“Nothing I can’t handle, I'm sure,” he stood up, stuffing the box awkwardly in his jacket. He walked away from the roulette table as the man cheered at his success. He was headed for the exit – he never stayed for long after a transaction was completed – and on the way, grabbed a pornstar martini straight off a tray that a waitress was carrying, drank it in one, and smashed the glass on the floor.

Somehow the air was colder than when he entered. A storm was coming, his senses told him that much. But he was still cold, and his electric blue silk suit jacket didn’t provide as much warmth as his gold one. He found himself digging the toe of his black converse into the paving slabs, listening to the click of heels coming from behind him.

“So,” a voice said, “you’re Alexander Costello. Quite the man, I hear.” The brunette from the roulette table appeared beside him, quirking an eyebrow.

“And you are?” he replied, laughing to himself. In his head were two thoughts; ‘why is the goddamn valet taking so long?’ and ‘it would be so much easier to shoot you than make small talk’.

“Sarah,” she smirked, lighting a cigarette. ‘Definitely easier to shoot you,’ he thought. Instead, he waved his fingers ever so slightly, and a gust of wind put out her cigarette and knocked the biker jacket from her shoulders.

“This is me,” he said, running to his car as soon as it pulled up. Sarah was left there, shivering and ultimately rejected.

He drove with the roof down, somehow not caught in traffic. He tore down the freeway, stopping momentarily for gas, then immediately turning back to head home. Something in his mind told him to drive into the desert, so he did. The howling of a pack of coyotes slowed him down slightly. And there it was. The storm. She was sat on a mound, back to the car and staring at the stars. Her hair danced in the wind as he shut off the car and climbed out without opening the door. A cloud of dust erupted as his feet landed on the ground. He sat next to her, fixing his shirtsleeves as he sat.

“Do you actively seek out trouble?” she asked, not taking her gaze off the sky.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he countered, noticing the mound was person-sized.

“You’re this ‘vigilante’ the press is talking about, aren’t you?”

“I might be,”

“You do realise I could’ve handled those guys, right?”

“Now I do,” he smirked. She stood up, shaking the dirt from her dress.

“I'm Rose Finch. Take me home?”


	4. Chapter 4

Steve slammed his head into the table. They’d been at this for days now, fuelled on coffee and pizza, and they were getting nowhere.

“He blew up a casino?” he said, head still on the table.

“Sonically too,” said Peter, who was hung upside down from the ceiling out of boredom.

“Peter, who said you could be here?” asked Tony, who’d only just realised he was there.

“Thirty-two of America’s finest in one fell swoop.” Maybe if he ignored Tony, he would be able to stay. “I gotta admit, that takes balls. And a lot of science.” Natasha raised an eyebrow at him, but decided that pretending he wasn’t there was probably best. In the end, what harm could a few pictures of dead bodies do that his ‘accident’ hadn’t already done?

“He’s a criminal, Peter. Lets focus on that.” Although he would never admit it, Tony was at his limit. He desperately needed sleep, and the largest whiskey he had.

“How do we even know it’s the same guy? There were no bullets,” Steve tried, but he was at his limit too. Nat chucked him a picture of an undestroyed bit of wall. On it, was the exact outline of one of the bullets in yellow spray paint, covered by the words ‘NO MORE’ in black. He had a point to make, and according to the press, he was making it.

Vision came rushing into the room, waving around a fresh file.

“The analysis of the bullets is back. They’re solid gold, and only fit one type of gun,” he said, slamming the file on the table underneath Peter, who nearly landed on top of him.

“Which is?” pushed Tony. He wasn’t one for beating about the bush.

“A colt revolver, which, according to legend, can kill demons.”

“So you’re saying he’s wiping out the demons?” Steve raised an eyebrow. He’d dealt with some insane people before – he dealt with Loki – but this was a whole new level. It was so much easier before he got frozen.

“Its what he may believe, yes,” Vision stepped back and pressed his fingers together, slightly proud of what he’d just delivered.

“I think I know who it is,” stated Tony before he ran from the room.


	5. Chapter 5

Wind whipped around them, filling the car as the freeway cleared. The engine roared, almost resisting the pressure he was placing on the accelerator pedal. They gained speed steadily, and swung round a corner without breaking in the slightest.

“Take it,” he commanded, not taking his eyes of the road.

“What?” her head whipped around, half expecting something else.

“The wheel. Take it.” He repeated, and he leant back into the backseat. His foot still floored the accelerator pedal, and her hands flew to it immediately in an attempt to stop them from crashing. He fumbled about for a bit before pulling out a bottle of Armand de Brignac from the foot well. With one hand back on the wheel, he tore the gold from the cork and popped it effortlessly. He took a healthy swig, eyes still staring straight ahead, before handing the bottle to her. She followed suit, drinking straight from the bottle. The car didn’t slow down despite the streets that they were now racing through. More corners, more dangerous swerving. At one point, the tail end of the car nearly crashed into a lamppost, but it wasn’t like he cared. This woman sat next to him made his stomach do somersaults, and he couldn’t decide whether it was a good thing or not.

His face lit up in an evil grin as they turned the corner that lead to the casino. Red police tape prevented him from seeing the once-famous building in ruins and guided him on a different route. A police car’s sirens flashed, and he grabbed the bottle of champagne from Rose’s fist. He drank again, finishing the bottle as the car approached them. The glass went flying and landed right in front of their pursuers, shattering into a million pieces. The officer sat behind the wheel took a moment to assess the situation before shutting off the siren and returning to his posting; it wasn’t worth risking his job. The driver could get away with murder if he really wanted to.

“You do realise this isn’t the way to my house, right?” she piped up after realising they were going in circles.

“I know,” he laughed, resting an arm on the car door.

“I never told you where home was.”

“You’re a Cali girl, I can tell.” His tone was so definite, and he wasn’t wrong. She wondered what gave him the idea, but didn’t question it.

Before long, they had driven through the centre of Vegas and into the outskirts. Rows of mansions had been set up, all surprisingly with an abundance of greenery outside. He disregarded every one until they pulled up outside a set of gold gates. A camera scanned the car, and the gates swung open. The sun was only just rising as they approached the house, if it could even be called that. It was like a castle, except without the towers and turrets. He turned off the engine just outside the garage and hopped out of the car again. He swung her door open, taking her hand and pulling her out of the car. She smiled and headed off in the direction of the front door.  
He didn’t know much about this woman, but he knew one thing; she was intoxicating.


	6. Chapter 6

Tony pulled up at the gates, regretting that he hadn’t shaved. Or slept. On his dashboard, a small screen was detailing the casino explosion, and another a news anchor and a reporter were discussing the Revolver. He felt like of he didn’t stay clued in to everything, he would miss something vital. All he could think about were the bullets. He only knew one person in possession of a Colt revolver, and he was praying that he was right and that the case would be over. The gates swung open and his car hummed into action.

“Remember the plan, guys. He springs into action, you come running to help, okay? I'm not getting killed today,” Tony said into his comms unit.

“We know the plan, Tony,” said Steve, who was sat in a car further up the street, tugging at his collar. Wearing his suit underneath ‘civilian’ clothes in the middle of summer in Nevada wasn’t exactly cooling.

He expected the front door to be closed. It was wide open, with the man of the hour propped against the doorframe in a varying state of undress.

“Anthony. You usually call before you make a house visit,” he said, moving to button up his shirt.

“Well, this one couldn’t wait,” he replied, coming face to face with him. He glimpsed the hallway, and its usual, pristine condition had ben tarnished. Something made of glass, which Tony recognised as one of his whiskey decanters, had been smashed. Black glitter was strewn across the marble floor, and in a heap was one of his suit jackets. Further along was his bow tie and holster, but no sign of the gun. Until this point in time, Tony had always thought Alexander’s form of precaution was admirable; who else would carry around a nineteenth century army issue gun? It was the same for him as it was every wealthy man – if you couldn’t defend yourself, you’d get robbed at any point. Tony himself didn’t leave the house, or compound, with his watch on.

“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about the murders going on around here, would you?” Tony asked as he shoved his hands in his pockets out of sudden fear.

“No,” he replied, tucking his shirt into his trousers, “why would I? Unless you thought I had something to do with it?”

“No, not at all,” he said, still searching for the gun in the space behind him, “its just that, well, this guy leaves behind bullets that fit your gun.”

“Tony, I'm not the only person in North America with a Colt,” he laughed, fixing his cufflinks back into his sleeves.

“I realise this, but here’s the thing. The bullets are-“

“Hey, have you seen my shoes anywhere?” a voice called from inside the house. Moments later, the speaker came forward. She hadn’t realised that Tony was there, or she would’ve made some effort to at least cover the split seam in her dress’s skirt.

“Try the kitchen,” he grinned wolfishly, not taking his eyes off of Tony’s confused expression. “Like I said, Anthony, I don’t know anything.”

He stepped back from the doorframe, gathering his holster and bow tie in a fist, and slung his jacket over his shoulder as he followed the woman into the kitchen.


	7. Chapter 7

Tony knew from the second that he stepped away from that house that something wasn’t right. He’d known Alexander pretty much from birth, and whenever he got with someone even remotely attractive he didn’t shut up about it. He remembered that when they were in high school, he got with the hottest girl in the year, and was still talking about it in college. This woman, whoever she was, was the most attractive person he’d ever been with, and he didn’t even say her name. Unless he had feelings for her? Tony shook the idea from his head. Alexander wasn’t exactly the most feeling of people, which somehow only furthered his suspicion. A tiny voice in the back of his head was screaming at him, ‘don’t be an idiot! It’s him! Isn’t it obvious?’

“What’s the situation?” Steve’s voice buzzed in his ear, snapping his thoughts in half.

“I don’t know, Cap. Something’s not right. I’ll be at the diner down the street. Meet you there?”

“Sure,” he said, and the line went dead. Tony had never felt scared near Alexander before. Grossed out, yes, jealous, yes, but never scared. He climbed into his car, realising for the first time in years just how sleep deprived he was, and just how much he would kill for a coffee. He glanced back at the house, the door still wide open, and for a second he swore he could hear something smash. He prayed to God he wasn’t an abusive person.

The gates swung open, allowing Tony to breathe and relax slightly. He passed the Captain on his way out, nodded to him and continued on his way. He didn’t notice that about a minute after he’d pulled away from the house, the black Mustang had followed him.

“Cap, change of plan. We’re going straight back to the compound.”

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah, but I need the whole team’s opinion on this one.” Tony drove straight past the diner and onto the freeway. Half a mile in, he turned off into the desert and headed straight for the Quinjet that had brought them here. Nat was nestled in the pilot seat, silently sweating in the heat, and Clint in the co-pilot seat, fiddling with his hearing aids. She punched his arm and signed for him to stop fiddling and put them back in before motioning to Tony’s approaching car. Steve was close behind him, somehow devoid of his ‘undercover’ clothing and in his suit. Both quickly ditched the cars and climbed in board – Nat was grateful, she really wasn’t coping with the heat.

“Thor’s back at the compound,” she informed as they climbed aboard. Her hands flew to switches, desperate for some air conditioning. The ramp closed and they were in the air in mere moments. Steve gave a pensive nod, glancing at a slightly shaken Tony. He didn’t want to believe that one of his best friends was a murderer.

The Quinjet gained speed easily, and within two hours they were back at the compound. They all sat around the table, still staring at the same files, the same gruesomely detailed murders.

“Alexander James Costello,” muttered Sam as he pulled up his file, “he’s short.”

“Really? He potentially murdered fifty three people in the space of a month, and all you have to say is ‘he’s short’?” Nat said, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“Family friend,” Tony added, “known him for forever. My parents were always comparing him to me. So annoying.”

“Why him?” Steve asked, regretting not asking before they went to question him.

“He carries around an old Colt. Got the whole thing cast in gold too, the show-off.” In Tony’s hand was an old newspaper clipping, with the headline reading ‘Costello Enterprises opens an LGBT youth centre in every state’. In the picture, Alexander’s arms were draped around two teenagers’ shoulders, a broad smile across all of their faces. If his suspicions were correct, that man printed on that paper was gone.

A door at the back of the room opened, exposing Pepper with her arm wrapped around a woman. She guided her to a chair, helping her grasp the shock blanket around herself more firmly. Her eyes seemed to have sunk back into her head and her whole body trembled. Clearly the blanket wasn’t helping.

“This is my friend Sarah,” Pepper announced, addressing the whole group, “she’s got something you might want to hear.”


End file.
